


Never Let Me Go

by fightingtheblankpage



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, off-screen violence, panic reaction, suggested mental health issues, unprescripted drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 18:54:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightingtheblankpage/pseuds/fightingtheblankpage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the brilliant AU  <a href="http://lonewolfed.tumblr.com/post/32616214032/teen-wolf-sterek-au-never-let-me-go-bad-things">gifset</a>  by lonewolfed of Tumblr.<br/>"Bad things start happening in Beacon Hills. Stiles is watching as his friends die and he can’t do anything about it. He might be losing his mind, too - he sees a ghost of a young man in black. For days. Weeks. Months. It’s weird at first, but Stiles gets used to it. Stiles learns that the ghost’s name is Derek Hale. He died six years ago in a fire, along with his entire family. Derek convinces Stiles that it’s connected to the recent events and helps him find the person responsible  for everything."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks go to two people this time: lonewolfed, for coming up with the most heart-wrenching idea that inspired this, and eak_a_mouse, my endlessly patient Beta, for helping me untangle my words and putting up with me (for a month!).

Stiles was running late. Not terribly late – Scott and he had stayed behind on the lacrosse field, practicing passes until they had grown tired of how much they both suck – but just enough that the anaemically pale winter sun had barely set when they’d left. By the time Stiles headed back home, after giving Scott a ride, it was mostly dark. The evening was snowless but cold, and the air was too dry in Stiles’ lungs.

Wanting to placate his Dad for being late, Stiles took a different route than usual, and swung by their favourite restaurant. He went a little overboard with the amount of food he bought, and when he turned into the road that would in turn take him to his neighbourhood, a stack of Styrofoam containers was shuffling around on the back seat of the Jeep.

They all get thrown to the floor when Stiles slams on the brakes. Despite what people may think about him, Stiles has impressive reflexes, and they’re the only reason why he doesn’t hit the person – boy, from what little he can see – running across the street. The boy’s hand reaches out and presses against the hood of the Jeep, before he pushes himself away to gain momentum. He’s darting towards Beacon Hills’ only park, which at this point is nothing but the forest’s attempt to reclaim the suburbs. Stiles looks after him for a few long seconds, trying to even out his breathing, a curse dying on his lips, and his knuckles white where he’s gripping the steering wheel.

“Watch where you’re going,” Stiles mutters without conviction. His heart isn’t in it – it’s still somewhere in his throat, fighting to get away from him.

His leg starts cramping, and it takes Stiles a moment to realise that it’s because he’s **_still_** pressing his foot down on the brakes with all his weight. He lifts his leg slowly, and massages the circulation back into his thigh and calf. When he starts paying attention to the car again, he notices that the Jeep’s engine had protested and died. He’s just about to start it again when a sudden sound, even more dry than the winter air, echoes in his ears.

Stiles is the Sheriff’s kid, and so he recognises a gunshot when he hears it. Not from real life, because Beacon Hills is too boring for that, but from the shooting range that his Dad brought him to a few times. He adds the facts in his head almost immediately: someone was running away, and now someone is shooting. This spells out ‘bad news’ in flashy, red letters.

Stiles is the Sheriff’s kid, and so he feels as if he’s being pulled in two different directions. Does he just let it go, or does he call the Sheriff blindly, without knowing any details? On one hand, he’s not, under any circumstances, to go and investigate on his own. But then on the other hand, the deep-rooted **_need_** to go and see if everything’s alright, if no one’s hurt, is something coded in Stiles’ genes.

In the end he decides that there was no screaming, and just one shot. It doesn’t warrant getting the authorities – and his **_Dad_** – alarmed. There is a fair chance he’s being paranoid here, and that’s the reason why he jumps out of the Jeep, slams the door carelessly behind him, and heads for the park at a half-jog: he needs to see first.

The park is cloaked in darkness, and about as unkempt as it possibly can be. For a second Stiles thinks he can see a silhouette between the trees, slipping past him. He calls out, thinking that it’s the boy, perhaps wounded, but there is no reply. Stiles stumbles and hits himself in the shin on the remnants of a broken bench.

Everything is quiet as Stiles makes his way through the park, a little faster now. Panic is taking hold of him, but he can’t say why, because it was just an accident, a gun going off. Or maybe there was no gun at all, just his pulse hammering in his ears from the narrowly avoided accident. He keeps repeating in his head that the boy must be fine, he’s fine. Stiles has just seen him running away after all. But logic isn’t helping, and his heart is racing, breath leaving him in loud wheezes.

Stiles stumbles again, and the leg that he hit just moments ago gives way underneath him. He scrambles for purchase in the grass, and it’s wet. When he gets up, his jeans are unpleasantly damp, and probably stained.

He looks around, feeling more and more like an idiot for getting so worked up over something that apparently didn’t even happen. And then his eyes land on something solid laying on the ground.

Stiles is a normal teenage boy raised in part by his computer and the TV (which isn’t to say that his Dad is neglectful, just busy), so he has a sort of sick interest in dead bodies. He sneaked into the morgue after his Dad, once, and the shouting-and-grounding he got for it was worth the rush he got from the strange combination of nausea, and excitement, and fear. But that was just **_a_** body, some woman mostly covered by white sheet.

This, though? This empty **_thing_** lying in the tall grass, with eyes shiny and unblinking, and a stain of black that would be red in better light? This is someone Stiles knows‒ knew. This is Isaac Lahey, and this is a shot wound, and this is–

Stiles knows what he has to do: he isn’t allowed to touch the body (isn’t allowed to touch the boy; isn’t allowed to touch **_Isaac Lahey_** ), and he has to call his Dad. His fingers feel like he’s been out too long in the cold when he tries to take his phone out of his pocket – which is strange, because Stiles can’t feel winter’s bite at all right now – and he drops it once before he finally dials his Dad’s number.

After that, he just sits on the ground, rigid and uncharacteristically still, as if he’s been assigned watch over that particular spot. That’s how his Dad, the deputy, and the medics with him find Stiles. Stiles’ Dad has to haul him to his feet, and then he keeps a hand on Stiles’ arm all the way to the cruiser. There is a second cruiser parked here, too, and an ambulance. The flashing lights and noises don’t really register with Stiles. His Dad’s expression is a mixture of different things Stiles has learnt to recognise: eyes soft with apology and surrounded by lines of sadness, mouth drawn with worry.

“You’re going to have to give a statement, Stiles,” his Dad says when Stiles is seated in the back of the car. “I’m sorry, we could do this tomorrow, but as this is a murder case–”

“It’s okay,” Stiles says. “It’s your job. And I just– I’d prefer to be done with it now.”

And he doesn’t even– he didn’t even know Isaac so well. Not at all, actually, because Stiles’ social circle is extremely tight-knit. It’s just Scott, and lately Allison, and on the outskirts of that group, Lydia, Jackson, and Danny. Sometimes. All Stiles knows about Isaac is that they were on the lacrosse team together, and that Isaac used to keep the same bench nice and occupied that Stiles does during the games.

He didn’t know Isaac, but the realisation that Isaac is dead, that a boy his age is dead, feels like being hit with something blunt. Stiles isn’t even sad, per se, as much as he’s‒ shell-shocked.

The Sheriff comes back a few minutes later with a deputy. He gives Stiles a long, concerned look through the grating separating them. Stiles does his best to reciprocate it with a brave smile, but he can’t say if it worked, because he can’t feel his muscles too well.

Nobody tries to engage Stiles in a conversation on the road to the station. Stiles half-listens to his Dad and the other deputy – he must be new, but Stiles thinks his name is something common, like Jones – and to the police scanner coming to life from time to time. There’s no news of the killer, and apart from that, Stiles isn’t very interested in the details. It must be the first time he can say it, but he’d rather know **_less_**.

At the station, his Dad leads him to the office, where Stiles gets to sit in the Sheriff’s chair. A cup of hot tea gets pushed into his hands, and someone suggests that maybe Stiles should have gotten some medical attention, because clearly there’s something wrong if he’s silent like that. The attempt at humour feels out of place, and soon it’s just Stiles and his Dad in the office.

“Okay,” the Sheriff says. “You know the drill. Just tell me everything you saw and heard, and then you can go home– Or if you don’t want to be alone, maybe you should stay at the McCalls’ today. I’ll give Melissa a call‒”

“No, I want to go home,” Stiles says. The thought of being alone isn’t pleasant, and he knows that his Dad won’t be able to get out of work at least until tomorrow, with a case like this on his shoulders. But for some reason Stiles doesn’t want to go to the McCalls’, even if it means seeing Scott. He doesn’t want anybody to see him like this.

Stiles tells his Dad about Isaac running away from someone, and about the gunshot. He’s very thorough in his description of the walk through the park, but when it comes to the moment when he maybe-saw a silhouette in the darkness, Stiles hesitates. The more he thinks about, the more convinced he is that it was just his adrenaline-fuelled imagination.

Still, he mentions it to his Dad, who in turns jots it down and tells him it may be important. Stiles nods, and then goes on to describe how he found Isaac Lahey in the park’s grass. He gets to the part where he stumbled yet again, and then his tongue stumbles, too, his throat feeling like he really needs to cough something out.

The Sheriff puts a hand on Stiles’ arm, and squeezes. Stiles feels his eyes going uncomfortably dry, and he makes another attempt at speaking. What comes out instead is a quick, shuddery exhale. Stiles tries to make up for that by taking a sudden breath, but it doesn’t work quite like that. Soon he’s gasping and his hands are shaking.

It’s funny how it’s only now that he realises just how close he must have been to the killer in that moment. They must’ve practically brushed past each other when Stiles was looking for Isaac. The park isn’t so big, after all, and Stiles gave that person less than a minute of head start before he scrambled out of the Jeep. And if someone killed once, and killed an innocent boy, who’s to say they wouldn’t do it again?

“All right,” the Sheriff says gently. He doesn’t tell Stiles that nothing’s wrong, which is good, because Stiles **_knows_** he’s safe. It doesn’t work quite like that, though. He’s scared anyway, as if all the delayed fear is coming now. His Dad pulls him into a hug and he twitches involuntarily before relaxing. “This is when you found the Lahey boy, right? That’s okay, you don’t have to say it if you don’t want to, just‒ Nod, maybe. Okay. Okay, that’s enough. You did good. You really did, but I need you to stay out of trouble now. Keep out of the streets.”

“I promise,” Stiles says, and he means it. This isn’t the type of trouble he’s going to go chasing with Scott. He really will stay out of this.

Stiles’ Dad walks him out into the parking lot, which is brightly lit and perfectly secure. He seems to want to follow Stiles to the car, too, but there are people already calling for him, asking him questions, and he gives Stiles one last warning before turning back and disappearing in the building. Stiles nods at the two deputies standing outside, talking animatedly. One of them is heading in, and the other has already finished his shift, from what little Stiles overhears on his way to the Jeep.

There is someone standing by his car.

Stiles hesitates, but it’s still a police parking lot, and nobody seems to be paying the stranger any mind. It’s a guy a couple years older than Stiles, clad in dark colours and the air of general dissatisfaction with everything around him. His hands are shoved deep into his jeans pockets, and he’s rigid with tension. His pale eyes lock on Stiles with the sort of intensity that leaves no doubt that the man has been waiting for him. If not for the two deputies still talking just outside his hearing range, Stiles would probably think twice about approaching his own car; the guy’s looking for a fight.

“You’re blocking my door,” Stiles says. He sounds tired and snappish, and his mouth runs away from him, like it so often does in stressful situations.

The man’s expression doesn’t change so much as it becomes more **_concentrated_** : the frown deepening, the eyes narrowed. “You saw someone in the park.”

Stiles freezes, and his heartbeat stutters. He’s too jumpy for this sort of conversation, still too raw from when the adrenaline rush abandoned him and left him dream-like and numb. “How do you know I was even there?”

Stiles has one fleeting thought that this may be the killer, trying to stop him from giving a statement. It doesn’t make sense, though. Firstly, it’s too late, as Stiles is **_leaving_** , not coming in. And secondly, any place would be better to ambush Stiles than here and now.

When there is no answer, Stiles repeats, more urgently, “ ** _How?_** ”

“I‒ Have personal interest in solving the case. You need to tell the Sheriff what you saw.”

“I just gave my statement. And it was dark, so‒ I saw some trees.” Stiles would like to get into his car, but the man is still blocking the door. He considers shoving past the guy, and gives up on the idea. The man looks as if it would cost Stiles his arm, and he doesn’t need that on top of his bruised shin.

“I think you weren’t entirely honest,” the man says.

“Yeah, well, and I think you’re harassing the Sheriff’s kid **_right in front of the station_**.” It’s a cheap thing to say, and Stiles usually doesn’t like hiding behind his Dad, but he aches to just go home.

The man’s head snaps towards the station, and he looks for a long moment. His jaw keeps clenching harder and harder, the tendons in his neck sticking out, until Stiles has to wince in anticipation of the sound of grinding teeth. It doesn’t come; instead, the man grits out in an almost unintelligibly tight voice, “This won’t stop on its own. There will be a next murder.”

“Okay, that’s a threat, buddy,” Stiles says, stepping back. “You can land in jail for that, you know?”

As if on cue, Stiles hears one of the deputies calling to him, “Is everything okay?”

“Fine!” Stiles yells back, turning towards the station. It proves that he’s been bluffing, but he doesn’t want his Dad **_more_** worried. And he definitely would be if he learned that Stiles is terrified enough of a random creep to alarm the whole department.

When he looks back in the general direction of the Jeep, the man is gone. Stiles looks around, but no, not a trace of him. Stiles doesn’t waste any more time, just gets into the driver’s seat, and locks the door. He hates it, but it calms him a little.

He isn’t surprised when a cruiser follows him home. His Dad might not have said anything, not wanting to freak Stiles out, but he’d never leave Stiles alone when there is a murderer on the loose.

The deputy keeps a respectful distance, but parks in a spot that is clearly visible from the street, close to the house. Stiles thinks – hopes, really – that it’s enough to guarantee him easy sleep, but of course he’s mistaken. When he finally, **_finally_** gets into his bed, with all the doors and windows locked and checked twice, his eyes are wide open. The quiet house feels like it’s pressing in on him, suffocating him.

Stiles pushes his cheek into the flat, old pillow, and just breathes. In the end he has to turn the lights back on, because otherwise everything in his room, like his chair or the dresser, looks like a tree, and between the trees, in the tall grass–

Stiles doesn’t sleep that night. He does the night-time equivalent of daydreaming, whatever that’s called. The scene from that evening keeps replaying itself in his head, details changing  more and more each time, and made to feel more and more real. The imaginings deepen until his muscles twitch when he remembers the walk through the park, his heart races, and his legs move when he tries to get closer to the silhouette that he still isn’t even sure was real.

Sometimes he gets close enough to see who it is, and it’s the man from the parking lot. He tries to run, then, but he can’t outrun the man – or can’t chase him down, this detail alters, too – and he snaps back to consciousness violently. But then, by the first light of dawn, Stiles is certain of only one thing: something about the dream doesn’t fit with what he remembers.

That person, if they were real‒ Stiles thinks it was a woman. He isn’t sure what makes him think that, but the outline against the night was relatively small. Definitely not as broad as the man in the parking lot.

By noon, Stiles can’t take it anymore, and he steals two pills from his Dad’s bathroom. He really shouldn’t, and usually he’s the first person to tell anybody that taking medication like that is **_bad_** and plain stupid. But his head feels like it’s equal parts wool and traps of unwanted images, so he gives in to the artificial, drugs-induced sleep.

His last thought before he drifts off is that if he’d gotten out of the car any sooner and followed Isaac, it wouldn’t have change anything – or would have ended badly for Stiles. This whole thing isn’t any of his concern, even, in any other sense than that it’s causing his Dad to not be home. Stiles has a lot of practice with repressing things, but it doesn’t work well enough. It doesn’t help with the knot of tension in his stomach, or the ‘what if’s that crowd in his head.

In the end, he doesn’t have nightmares, and for the time being it’s all he cares about.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles doesn’t leave the house for the entire weekend. After finding a corpse in the woods, he feels like he deserves to take it easy. He moves downstairs, onto the living room couch, where he takes up residence in front of the TV. Watching one show after another is mind-numbing, but in a pleasant, calming way. Stiles favours the infomercials, since they’re the least demanding, concentration-wise.

This is how his Dad finds him: curled on the couch, a blanket thrown carelessly over his legs, and his eyes glued to a woman chattering cheerily about stainless steel knives on the TV screen. (So they are called that! Good.) The Sheriff sits down next to him, and pats Stiles’ leg awkwardly. When Stiles looks over, his Dad’s eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. Stiles knows it’s from lack of sleep and too much staring at the computer screen, crime scene photos, and other deputies’ reports.

“How’s the case going?” Stiles asks. The Sheriff’s shoulders slump.

“You know I can’t give you any details, Stiles. It’s an on-going murder investigation, so it’s strictly confidential. And that applies especially to nosy teenagers.” It’s all the answer Stiles needs. If his Dad knew something, he would share, if only to make Stiles feel better. “I’m going to crash now. Those were some long days. Try not to wake me up, okay?”

The Sheriff pushes himself to his feet with a grunt. Stiles watches him with worry, biting at his lower lip. “Dad? I’m sure it’s nothing, but– You always tell me to let you know when something suspicious happens.”

“Yes?” his Dad asks warily. He runs a hand over his face, and Stiles notices that his hand is shaking. He instantly regrets even bringing it up, but the Sheriff is looking at him expectantly. “What is it?” he prompts, even as his gaze strays over Stiles’ shoulder, to where his bedroom is.

Stiles tries to blurt out everything as fast as he can. “That day, when I went to give my statement, there was a guy waiting for me outside. Maybe not waiting for me, but he asked me some questions about the murder. And he seemed pretty intense. I don’t know, it sounds stupid now that I say it out loud.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I’ll look into that first thing tomorrow. The CCTV cameras must have caught him if he was in the parking lot. I’ll see if he’s in our database. I followed a hunch more than once; maybe you take after me and it’s a lead.” (I’m not sure it would be so lucky for Stiles J) He smiles, and Stiles does, too. He feels lighter now that he told his Dad what has been bugging him for the past two days.

 

***

When Stiles shows up to school on Monday, people are staring.

They are staring, and they are whispering. One girl even goes as far as to ask him “Did you see the body?” in a hushed, excited voice. Stiles just gawks at her, confused and aghast. Luckily, before he gets a chance to come up with a response – and it wouldn’t be a nice one, he’s sure of that – Scott is by his side, with Allison trailing behind him, and the girl makes herself scarce.

“You good, man?” Scott asks, clasping a hand over his arm.

“Of course he’s not,” Allison says. She looks sympathetic and worried, and in moments like this, Stiles really appreciates Scott’s taste in girls. Or Allison’s low standards, maybe. Only Stiles really doesn’t want to talk about how he feels, and he stays quiet under their concerned gazes until they catch on and change the subject.

“Two deputies are here, at the school,” Scott says as they make their way towards the classroom.

“Why?” Stiles asks, furrowing his brow. He can’t imagine that they suspect someone from school, especially a student. He entertains the idea that maybe it’s Harris, but it’s mostly because of his dislike for the teacher.

 

Scott looks just as uncertain, so Allison answers instead. “They’re asking around. They want to know who Isaac was friends with and so on. Or if he was in trouble with someone. A lot of crazy gossip is going around.” She sighs, pushing her dark hair behind her ear.

Stiles suspects he must be the hero of quite a few of these rumours, but he doesn’t want to hear about that. He’s mostly used to being ignored by the entire student body, and honestly, he prefers that to the morbid attention he’s getting now.

Something else piques his interest, though, and Stiles feels a pang of guilt. “I don’t even know who he was friends with.” Truth be told, he never spent as much time thinking about Isaac as he does now, after his death. He’s sure it’s true for other people, too, but it doesn’t make him feel any better.

 

“I think he used to hang out with Erica – as in Erica Reyes? – and Boyd. Um, I don’t know his first name.”

“Nobody knows it,” Scott reassures her.

Stiles isn’t reassured at all. Because Allison’s been here all of what, six months? He’s been living in Beacon Hills his entire life, but he never really gave a damn about so many people. He noticed them, true, but never really cared. Just about Scott, really, and of course Lydia, his hopeless love.

Still, it’s better to be at school than at home, alone. School provides a great distraction, if Stiles just ignores the inquiring stares. The best way to stop obsessing over Isaac’s death is practice, even though the only time Stiles even talked to Isaac was lacrosse. Coach Finstock addresses the team in a few words that Stiles is sure come from a movie. He doesn’t feel like looking into the sources of the quote, and doesn’t even pay much attention. He’s glad that the Coach lacks any sort of emotional intelligence.

After the short interlude, the practice resumes as always. It’s the first time since Friday that Stiles doesn’t think about the murder.

***

By the time his Dad comes home again on Wednesday, Stiles has mostly managed to convince himself that the man he’d met in the station’s parking lot was just a random creep. He accepted that his theory that the man was the murderer was, in fact, his imagination running away from him. He’s still worried about the murder, and he thinks about the night when he found Isaac entirely too much.

Stiles is certain that his Dad will tell him not to worry about the man, that it was just some guy from town. But the Sheriff looks too serious and concerned when he takes a seat by the kitchen table. Stiles puts a plate in front of him, and then sits down himself. He doesn’t like the way the lines around his Dad’s eyes have gotten deeper sometime in the last few days.

“There’s still a lot to be done, but I’m going to stop leaving you alone for days at a time,” the Sheriff says.

“That’s good,” Stiles says. “Well, no, it’s not, because you haven’t caught the murderer– But it’s good that you’ll rest a little.”

“I won’t be able to really rest till this case is closed.” Stiles nods, because, of course, of course his Dad will do whatever it takes. “Listen, son. I went through those CCTV tapes.”

 

There’s something about the tone of the Sheriff’s voice that makes Stiles feel uneasy. It’s almost apologetic, and definitely sad and exhausted. He looks at Stiles for a long moment before setting his fork down. Stiles doesn’t like the look of his Serious Talk expression.

“You don’t know who it is?” Stiles asks. His heart sinks, for some reason. It was the only piece of puzzle he had, even if it didn’t fit anywhere.

“No.” The Sheriff shakes his dead. “No, Stiles. You were stressed out, and– I’ll tell you, and you have to promise to–”

“You’re freaking me out now,” Stiles says. “Just tell me, come on.”

“There was no one with you. There was no one waiting by your Jeep. I watched the tapes, and it was just you, walking out of the building, and then up to your Jeep. You stood there for a few minutes before getting in and driving away. We– The cameras aren’t new, by any means, so the zoom is pretty crappy, but– It looked like you were talking to yourself there.”

 

Stiles looks intently at the table, refusing to meet his Dad’s eyes. The concern there chokes him. He swallows the words trying to get out and the bile in his throat.

“I– I think I’ll go do my homework now.”

“Stiles. You know we have to talk about this. You were in shock, I’m not saying‒”

“I’m fine. Just fine.” It feels like he keeps repeating this phrase over and over again; it stopped making sense some time ago, and now it’s just empty now.

“Stiles.”

Stiles jumps to his feet and almost runs out of the kitchen. The Sheriff lets him go, and Stiles dashes up the stairs, shuts the door of his room behind him. He sits on the bed, breathing heavily.

There was no one there. Just him.

Stiles would like to think that he’s losing his mind, but the only thing he truly trusts is his brain. This doesn’t make any sense, doesn’t provide him with any answer. Overwhelmed, Stiles shoves his hand into his mouth and bites down to keep himself from screaming.

***

It takes two weeks, but the dreary atmosphere that has taken over the school lifts somewhat. People finally stop talking about Stiles (but they keep talking about Isaac), even though in the privacy of his head he acknowledges that now they have even more reason to do so. Talking to people who are not there should fascinate them more than accidentally stumbling into a crime scene.

Stiles hadn’t told Scott anything about the guy from the parking lot, and it turned out to be the right choice. It means that later, he doesn’t have to admit to anything.

The sharp sound of the Coach’s whistle snaps Stiles back to reality. He’s frozen in the middle of the lacrosse field, and Scott is looking at him pretty suspiciously. At first Stiles thinks that the whistle is because he stopped mid-run, but no. Finstock isn’t even looking at him. He’s talking with the Principal.

“What’s going on?” Scott asks. He looks lost and maybe even a bit upset that the Principal is disturbing their practice.

“I don’t know.” Stiles frowns. He feels cold, but from the inside out, not the other way around. He watches Finstock nod along to whatever the Principal is saying before turning to the players.

“All right! There’s no reason to panic– Ah, what am I talking about, there is a reason to panic, but don’t do it. Just grab your things, and go straight home. Don’t loiter, don’t take any lonely strolls. Grab a ride with a friend or an acquaintance you tolerate. We have a police enforced curfew. I’m not joking, move.”

Some people start moving towards the locker rooms, but Stiles can see that Jackson is stalling even as Danny tries to urge him forward. “What’s going on?” Jackson asks in an eerie echo of Scott, only he sounds snappish and annoyed.

Stiles knows the answer even as Finstock says, “There was another murder.”

“Who?” Jackson asks at once, just as Scott swears into Stiles’ ear, “Shit. I should go to Allison.”

“Yeah, do that,” Stiles says, nodding. “I have my car, so.”

“Are you sure? I could–”

“No, go.” Stiles almost shoves Scott away, but Scott doesn’t notice that something’s wrong.

Stiles hurries away from the field, but he’s not quick enough to avoid hearing anything more. He catches the Principal’s unhappy scowl at the Coach’s choice of words, and then he hears Finstock say, “Reyes. Erica Reyes.”

Even after Stiles changes from the lacrosse uniform into his own clothes at a record speed and sprints to the school parking lot, the guy is already there. He’s leaning against the Jeep, somehow managing to be both casual and angry. He’s there for real, Stiles is sure of that. He isn’t a hallucination.

“There was another murder,” Stiles says. He has a sudden urge to shove the guy away, just to see if he would be corporeal under his hands. When he steps closer to test that theory, however, the guy pushes himself away from the car and keeps his distance, letting Stiles get into the driver’s seat.

“I know,” the guy says.

“But how do you know? I could report you, man, I wasn’t joking. My dad is the Sheriff.”

When Stiles looks up, the guy is standing by the passenger window. The left corner of his mouth twists upward in the bitterest attempt at a smile Stiles has ever seen. “You already did. Didn’t work out.”

“Okay,” Stiles huffs. He jams the key into the ignition and grabs the steering wheel to steady himself. “Okay. Are you gonna tell me who you are?”

“I need your help.” The last word is gritted-out as if it has jagged edges. “So that we can help those people. More of them will die if you don’t listen to me.” The man catches himself, maybe remembering how Stiles accused him of sounding threatening. “I can’t tell you who the killer is, that’s part of the– You’re the only one who will listen. I have to stop–”

“Her,” Stiles suggests, remembering the silhouette in the woods. The man nods. “Stop her. I don’t even know your name, much less have a reason to trust you.”

The man looks pointedly towards the school’s entry, and Stiles realises that he’s looking suspicious again. He’s sitting in his car, alone, probably shaking and looking sickly pale. Finstock walks out of the school, and Stiles can practically feel his eyes zero in on his Jeep.

“Derek,” the man says. Stiles startles. When he’s not in Stiles’ line of sight, it feels like the guy’s not there. Like he doesn’t have any presence, unlike every other human. It takes Stiles a second to catch up to the fact that the guy is introducing himself. “Derek Hale. And you’re– Stiles.”

It’s not the answer Stiles was asking for. It’s not any sort of explanation really. But it’s just one more thing that hasn’t made sense since Isaac’s murder: the deaths, the complete lack of evidence, the fact that both murders were committed in town suggests it may be someone from Beacon Hills. Stiles refuses to believe that any of the locals could kill not one, but two teenagers.

Stiles can imagine the exhausted look on his Dad’s face if another murder happens, the way the house will be stifling and empty at the same time again, with the Sheriff at the station. And then he thinks about the possibility of anyone else getting hurt. Someone he really cares about, this time.

“So get in, Derek,” he says.

The door on the passenger side doesn’t open and close. Stiles blinks, and Derek is there, sitting inside the car, staring straight at him. Stiles doesn’t say anything, just swallows roughly and starts driving. His hand automatically reaches out to turn up the heat – the car feels a few degrees colder all of a sudden.

Derek doesn’t offer any more information on the drive. Actually, he doesn’t even make a sound, completely satisfied with furrowing his brow and giving Stiles the hardest, most scrutinising stare. Finally, as they are turning into his driveway, Stiles can’t take it anymore, and blurts out, “Why can I see you?”

There is no answer, and Stiles looks over. The passenger seat is empty. Derek is standing on the porch, with his hands shoved into his leather jacket’s pockets. Stiles gets out of the car, and slams the door a little too hard behind himself. The entire Jeep shakes with the force of it.

“I asked how come I can see you, and nobody else can. Well, my Dad can’t.”

Derek’s shoulders move in something that could be a shrug, or could be just him trying to get rid of stiffness in his neck. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know. But of course you don’t know, why would you. All you know is who the killer is, but you can’t tell me. Just because.” He opens the door and marches inside, without even bothering to check if Derek is following him.

And sure enough, when Stiles makes it to his room, Derek is already there, standing by the window. “I’m not doing it ‘just because’,” he grits out. His eyes go dark with frustration, and the room grows colder, to the point where Stiles’ teeth start to chatter. “I can’t. That’s how it works, I don’t control it! I don’t know why it’s you. But it is, and you have to– This is important. You don’t know how long I’ve been trying–”

Every time Derek says something promising, it’s like he chokes on the words. Stiles makes a sound of frustration and flops into his chair. “Maybe I’m just going insane. Maybe I hit myself on the head in that park, and I can’t remember it, but it’s given me a concussion.”

“No,” Derek says sharply. “The only mad person is–” His jaw tics, and he looks like he wants to punch something. Stiles’ breath comes out in a cloud of white. He isn’t sure how he makes the connection between Derek’s control slipping and the temperature dropping. It just feels true.

“Calm down,” Stiles says. “Dude, look what you’re doing. Calm down.”

Derek takes a breath that is so loud and shuddery Stiles can hear it on the other side of the room. But it’s no longer so freezing cold, so that’s something. “I can’t tell you who it is,” Derek repeats. “But I’m there when the murders happen. I get– dragged there. To watch. I won’t have time to warn you, but you will know if you see it happening. It’s– violent.”

Stiles makes a vague gesture telling Derek to go on. He’s sure that if he opens his mouth, all his disbelief and frustration will come spilling out.

“The boy, Isaac Lahey. He worked at the cemetery. He saw something, and he told his friends. He saw her.”

“Saw her doing what?” Stiles asks, despite himself, but Derek just shakes his head. He can’t tell, then. “Okay, which friends? Erica, yeah. And Boyd?” This time Derek nods. Stiles is already exhausted by this interrogation. How does his Dad even do this? “Do you know where Boyd is now?”

“Home?” Derek suggests. “I don’t know. It doesn’t work like that.”

“Then how did you know where to look for me?”

“I followed you.”

Stiles lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Of course. But you can tell where the murderer is? How come?”

When Derek shakes his head again, Stiles isn’t even surprised. Nor is he that when he turns his eyes away for just a second then looks back, Derek is gone.

***

Stiles is many things, but he’s not naive. He double-checks his facts, and rarely takes anything at face value. He’s the Sheriff’s kid, like he keeps reminding Derek.

That’s why he sneaks into the station. It’s easier than it should be, because most of the deputies are busy with the two murder cases. Stiles uses the excuse of bringing his Dad dinner that isn’t take out, and a thermos of coffee.

Most of the archives have been transferred into the department’s computers, apart from the oldest ones. The paper version weren’t destroyed, though, and Stiles finds himself in the basement of the Sheriff’s office, surrounded by file cabinets, trying to figure out the order of the files.

He’s jittery and jumpy, turning towards the door at every half-imagined sound. He wouldn’t get in too much trouble if someone were to find him, but the fear of getting caught isn’t the only reason for the state of Stiles’ nerves. He really isn’t sure if he wants to find anything.

Just as he nearly talks himself out of continuing his search, his fingers stumble over a manila folder. The name ‘Hale’ catches his eye, and Stiles opens it despite his better judgement.

He leans against the file cabinet, breathing in the dust accumulated over the years.

Inside the folder, Stiles finds a report from the Beacon Hills Fire Department. He reads the scarce information it contains. The section titles ‘Cause of Fire’ catches his eye: electrical malfunction, suspected arson. Some flipping through the other papers stuffed into the folder proves that the investigation was closed from lack of evidence. Another short column tells Stiles that there were no survivors.

Stiles doesn’t want to, he hates himself for doing it, but he reads slowly through the names of the victims.

They don’t mean anything to him, apart from one. It’s written across from Laura Hale, the letters stark against the yellowed page.

Derek Hale.


End file.
